Under The Skin
by Lucrecia LeVrai
Summary: Durer hates the fact that Vallewida still won't look up at him with nothing but sheer terror in his eyes.


Disclaimer: I could have never created a thing as twisted as _Enzai_. Or a character as awesome as Vallewida, for that matter.

**A brief note to those who played the game**: It's Durer/Vallewida, enough said. You know what to expect. In a way, it's not as bad as what happens in the game all the time—but I still have a feeling it's actually a bit worse in some aspects.

**A longer note to those who haven't played the game, yet are still intrigued by the story**: If you are underage, turn back _now_. This is your last warning. If you are eighteen and above, yet the mere thought of prison rape makes you uneasy, turn back as well. This fic is very, very nasty, nothing like the things I usually write. It doesn't contain any actual intercourse—nothing happens in flesh, no male anatomy is displayed—but it is nevertheless filled with lots of direct hints at oral/anal rape, forced and humiliating, sexually-related activities, physical torture, mental torture, and also very crude language, especially the part told from Durer's perspective. It's hard to write a canon fic about him and Vallewida _without_ including all these things.

This story is just a plotless torture/angst, but I had to write it anyway. I did my best to keep both men in character, so Vallewida stays quiet and Durer is absolutely _vile_; his lines are terrible and cheesy to the point of being hilarious, though I swear he was totally like that in the game (only worse). Yes, they both hate each other and it's a psychological play of sorts—with sexual elements in abundance.

If FFNet went this far and made a separate category for _Enzai_ (a game about sadistic, abusive pedophiles, for hell's sake – what sort of fics would you _expect_ here?), then I suppose it's okay to post my one-shot here; its vulgar language and dirty contents notwithstanding. At least the characters are of age, approximately in their late twenties.

I apologize in advance if I manage to seriously freak you out with this.

* * *

_Under __The Skin_

by Lucrecia LeVrai

* * *

_It's going to be a long __night_, Durer thinks with satisfaction, and then lowers himself into a chair placed in the middle of his office, like a spectator taking his seat in the newly erected _Théâtre de l'Odéon_, a popular place for the upper class that his father visits on a frequent basis. Durer has never appreciated art much, ancient tragedy or the opera are far too boring—far too predictable—for his taste. He is much more content with being a director who invents his own plays.

It's one-man theatre tonight, and with his favorite actor, too. Or should he say—a puppet show with his favorite doll?

He spreads his legs and leans forward, marveling at the sight.

Before him kneels a pale, silver-haired man with his hands bound behind his back. He seems resigned, which is nearly a pity. Durer has always appreciated the former soldier's preliminary struggles, and lately there haven't been many of them anymore. Just this grudging silence.

"No need to act so shy, Vallewida," he snickers. "Come closer."

There's a dark look of hatred and misery in Vallewida's eyes, but of course he knows better than to disobey. A smart one, this little whore, though regretfully stubborn at times. On his knees, he crawls to the spot where the prison warden is resting comfortably, stopping at an arm's length from his crotch. By now, this has become a happy routine for the two of them. Admittedly, Durer hates routine with a passion, but there's a certain quality in how both men can read each other's thoughts these days without even trying.

Yes, Durer can almost pick up the words running through Vallewida's head. Vallewida knows that in a moment he will be asked to take a piece of sweet, delicious cock into his mouth. That he will be extremely lucky if he is given merely this order, not proceeded or followed by anything else, like a kick to his face, for example.

Durer smirks to himself and at the prisoner, whose lips are set into a grim line. If only it was as simple as getting a good fuck out of this man… but there's more to their lovely relationship than just fucking, isn't there? Carnal pleasure alone is pathetically easy to obtain within these walls. There are dozens of other inmates in his private domain who could suck him off at a mere inclination of his head—though of course Vallewida, having the most experience, is the most skilled, not to mention the prettiest one of them all. Durer knows that apart from being called 'Durer's bitch' or 'Durer's woman' by his prison mates, the long-haired ex-soldier also goes by the charming nickname of 'princess'.

Sex is a valuable, but not the only existing factor during their frequent sessions. Come to think of it, it's probably not even _the_ most important factor.

Durer doesn't just want to fuck Vallewida as many times as he wants, or in as many ways as he can imagine—and his vast imagination happens to be one of his many virtues, thank you very much—until he is either bored or fully satisfied. He doesn't just want to see Vallewida seized by an involuntary climax, trashing his pretty head around, red with humiliation and desire.

No, Durer wants to _break_ him.

He wants him to shatter, to whimper like the dog he is, to scream, to beg for mercy at the top of his lungs. To turn his obedience into something genuine, not just an act of calculated survival. To make him lose his goddamn self-composure.

And he wants the _real_ Vallewida to do these things; neither the lifeless doll who takes his place whenever he is being beaten, nor the insatiable slut who writhes under Durer's oh-so-gentle hands, moaning to be fucked more and more in a barely audible voice.

Durer is slowly getting impatient with waiting. Already two years in prison, and the former officer still won't give him what he wants. He won't look up at his most favorite warden with nothing but sheer terror in his eyes.

Vallewida is kneeling before him now, head hung low in sullen resignation.

"Look at you," Durer laughs jovially, "you were nearly stumbling over your legs in a hurry to get over here. Do you really want my precious cock so badly?" Vallewida says nothing. Durer's eyes narrow, he doesn't like this silence. He'd rather his victim played his part properly. "Answer me!"

"…No. Not really." Vallewida's voice is soft and quiet; he sounds like a fucking_ saint_ all the time—not counting the times he _is_ being fucked, of course.

"Oh? What was that again?" Durer smiles maliciously at the predictable reply. "Does it mean you're tired of your little friend already?" Not a muscle moves in the kneeling man's face, and Durer can feel his anger rising. "Well then, how about a little change to our game? Let's play something different today. Who knows…" he pauses and lowers his voice for a better effect, "you might just _die_ from excitement."

This said, he reaches for the pistol he wears at his side. It sparks some interest from the soldier at last; Durer can see his whole posture tense, much to his own, openly displayed satisfaction. He turns the weapon in his hands. Like a man appraising a precious trophy, he strokes the shimmering barrel for a few agonizingly long moments, knowing that a pair of weary eyes is following his every move.

Then he points the weapon at Vallewida's head.

"Open your mouth."

There's a sharp, shocked intake of breath, and Vallewida does not obey the order at once. His hesitation lasts but three seconds, which is enough to raise the other man's ire to a new, more dangerous level.

"You heard me," Durer growls. "Do it, or I'll knock out all of your teeth with the barrel."

Vallewida's heartbeat is faster now, and most of his blood has drained away from his already pale face, but otherwise there are no signs of fear. He opens his mouth.

Durer pushes the pistol inside, as far as it can go. It's quite impossible to breath with such a thing pressed against your throat, so tears of pain immediately spring to the corners of the prisoner's eyes.

"You know," Durer begins conversationally, ignoring the fact that his so-called interlocutor is currently choking, "you've been quite uncooperative for these past two years. And no, I don't mean the sex; you've been perfectly wonderful and _willing_ in that department. What I mean is the location of the documents you stole from my dear father and your stubborn insistence that you have no idea what I'm talking about." Vallewida's eyelids flutter. It's such a miniscule movement, but it's probably meant to say: 'because that's true, I _don't_ know'. Had Durer been a different man, he could almost admire the way the former soldier can seem so absolutely sincere every single time he lies about not remembering certain things. After a pause, he continues, "See, my father's been getting a trifle impatient of late. It's high time we tied up all these loose ends, he says, and perhaps he's right. Because there's a good chance that the evidence, even if not found by us, will simply perish with you."

Durer withdraws the pistol marginally so that Vallewida can catch some air at last. The kneeling man jerks back and gasps, a trail of saliva dripping from his chin. Durer waits just long enough to make sure his victim is no longer in the immediate danger of dying from suffocation, and once again keenly aware of his surroundings. Then he cocks the trigger.

Any other man he knows would have at least wet himself by now.

It takes lots of Durer's willpower not to fire the weapon. Father Dearest would be very upset with him if he did that, right? The things said a moment ago were a lie. No letting Vallewida off the hook before he finally gives the minister the answers he needs, like where are the incriminating papers and who else knows about them. But still, what would his daddy say if Durer's finger accidentally _slipped_ on the trigger? It could happen to anyone, even to the most experienced warden…

"On the other hand," he muses out loud, "shooting you would be far too simple. A bullet through your brain and you don't even know what hit you… No, Vallewida. Your end won't be so easy. You'll die slowly in a pool of your own blood, and I swear I'll find a way to make you _aware_ of that when it happens."

Durer enjoys the helpless shiver that runs through the man's body. But this is all he will get for now. It's fucking ridiculous. Before him kneels a pathetic scrap of a human being who will soon be staggering back to his cell like a cripple (or be dragged there unconscious, depending on how far things will go), one who has the habit of muttering nonsense to himself when he's not too busy being tortured or riding a cock, yet one who still disrupts his clockwork world and refuses to yield in the way Durer would find the most pleasurable.

But Durer has never felt true respect for anyone, not even for his own father, so the only thing he feels for Vallewida right now is hatred.

"You seem a little uptight this evening," he says, smiling maliciously. "Why don't you relax with the familiar routine?" He nudges the corner of the prisoner's mouth with his loaded pistol. "Suck this thing as if it was my own cock."

Vallewida's eyes widen slightly at the request, but he can sense Durer's mood well enough not to push his luck. And of course he _does _start sucking the pistol, his tongue working around the metal barrel in a skillful, suggestive manner. Durer can feel himself getting hard at the sight, but his own arousal can wait. He needs to tend to his guest first, doesn't he?

"Such eagerness… You would like this up your ass, wouldn't you?"

Vallewida flinches visibly, yet doesn't pause.

"Oh, I bet you _would_," Durer drawls. "Well, guess what? It's your lucky day today! Because you sure as hell are going to get it. In just a few moments. Now spread your legs more!"

It's another direct order the prisoner can't refuse. His cheeks already flushed with shame, he carefully puts some distance between his knees, little at first, more at the warden's repeated demand.

Durer shifts his position to make himself comfortable, and then reaches with the tip of his polished boot to rub the most vulnerable spot between Vallewida's legs. He's not being too gentle about it. The soldier winces, trying to edge away, but he can't run far without releasing the pistol and disobeying Durer's orders. He squirms nonetheless, desperate to avoid the stroking as much as possible, until he seems one step short of jerking his whole body back.

"Don't even think about it," Durer says, punctuating the advice with a well-aimed kick to the other man's testicles. There's not enough leverage to make the blow as strong as he would have liked, but it still makes Vallewida jump up with a muffled cry—as if he were electrified—and bite down on the pistol, hard.

"You're lucky it's not my cock in your mouth," Durer laughs darkly at the tears he can see. "Because if it had been, I would have ripped your balls off—do you understand?"

He gives Vallewida no time to recover, nudging the insides of his mouth with the pistol. The leather boot on the other man's crotch turns into a parody of a gentle caress, which must now hurt like hell. Vallewida moans—but the moan sounds a bit different than the pained cry he gave a short while ago.

"Did you like that?" There's nothing but dark amusement bubbling up in Durer's tone. "Do you want more?"

And this is the moment in which all tension is lifted from Vallewida's face. It's like a candle being blown off by a sudden gust of wind. The soldier's eyes change, from pained, scared and genuinely disgusted to glazed and unseeing. The pupils narrow into mere dots, leaving behind huge, unnaturally looking irises.

This is not mere unconsciousness, it's something else altogether. The man who hated every second of this humiliating experience and probably _would_ have bitten Durer's prick off without hesitation, given a proper chance to do so, is no longer here—he has been replaced with an empty, obedient doll who doesn't care at all if it is forced to fulfill all sort of depraved whims. In fact, this doll often fulfils them with pleasure, craving a man's fists and a man's cock like a drug addict might crave opium.

Durer notices the shift almost at once, as soon as Vallewida stops resisting his touch, and is now all but rubbing himself on the polished surface of the warden's boot, bruised manhood notwithstanding—which is of course why Durer lowers his leg, leaning forward to grab the prisoner's hair, instead. Vallewida is panting shallowly, otherwise his expression is unmoved. It's fun having this shameless harlot around, no doubt about it, but unfortunately nowhere near as fun as having Vallewida himself, the one who _knows_ what it is to hate, to submit and to suffer.

"Running on me again, you fucking coward?" Durer hisses in his victim's face.

He doesn't expect an answer, but there is one. "…Forgive me." Vallewida's voice is but a dull monotone void of any human emotion. "I won't run anymore."

A fitting reply for a deserter, Durer thinks; no doubt taught to him by his former comrades from the military, soon after the traitor was caught. He heard the snippets of that amusing tale from his father—apparently the French army also found Vallewida's tight hole irresistibly inviting, and hell knows how many soldiers had their collective way with the little whore for at least a few weeks before he was transferred to this prison.

"No, you won't run, because there's no place for you to run to," Durer assures the other man with a smirk. "Now stop." The order is obeyed at once, but with no visible relief.

Gray eyes raise to meet Durer's gaze, simply awaiting the next command.

"Tell me," Durer whispers, his tone almost soft as he withdraws the pistol and moves it under the soldier's chin. "Would you like me to pull the trigger and blow your brains off?"

It's not exactly a rhetorical question, though rhetorical questions are something Durer excels at. He actually wants to hear a clear answer this time.

Vallewida stirs, hard steel pressing firmly into his jaw. Something unfamiliar flickers in his empty irises, something not easy to define—and despite himself, Durer finds himself licking his lips in anticipation. Is it true fear, at last? A proof that the real Vallewida remains right here, hidden just under the surface, aware of what is happening around him, of what is being done to him?

"Please…" Vallewida's voice is nearly—but not all—expressionless. Please _what_? Please, Durer, don't fucking kill me? Gray eyes keep staring ahead. "Please do."

It takes literally every singe ounce of Durer's self-control to not listen to the lifeless wish.

* * *

Vallewida's comebacks to reality are often accompanied by a lingering headache and a strong sense of despair—as if there's some event in his past he really _ought to_ remember, even if it's definitely not a pleasant one—but they are hardly ever sudden, or spectacular. The fog in his mind lifts slowly, little by little, clearing enough for him to actually _see_ a set of filthy bricks in front of him, and then understand what it means. He blinks a few more times and sure enough, he's back in his small cell, laying on his side with his eyes fully open and staring at the opposite wall. He doesn't recall returning from Durer's room, lowering himself onto the bunk, or pulling the thin blanket over his body, but knows (on an intellectual level, at last) that _he_—and no one else—must have done this some time earlier. Durer doesn't have the habit of tucking his victims safely to bed after he's done tormenting them. Durer…

_Oh, God._ Vallewida shivers. His last conscious recollection of the past is that of being kicked—hard—between his legs, while fulfilling yet another one of that pervert's demented fantasies, which included a loaded pistol, of all things. The sheer terror of that scene robs him of his breath even now, as he is laying in his cell, temporarily safe and not in the immediate vicinity of his tormentor. _Lord, have mercy on him,_ he was certain he was going to die for real this time. Bollanet still wants him in one piece for some inexplicable reason, but Durer can hardly be described as an obedient, composed son. He could snap without a second thought. Vallewida is all too aware of the raging hatred he has involuntarily earned himself in Durer's eyes.

He clearly remembers the promise of being fucked with the warden's weapon later; that was probably the part that made him lose it this time, combined with the 'tender' caress he was forced to endure. For all Vallewida knows, Durer always keeps his promises. So unless the bastard changed his mind and went for something even worse in the end, the pistol _was_ used on him. Among other things. Durer just can't get off by leaving his rotten cock unattended, can he?

Considered from this perspective, the selective memory loss is not a curse, but a true blessing. Too bad it won't stop Vallewida's rational mind from analyzing what he experiences during his 'normal' periods, or prevent him from drawing his conclusions.

He stares at the blackened wall for a while, trying to get his breathing back under control. It's no use thinking about the things he can't even—doesn't really want to—remember. It's best to pretend they didn't happen in the first place, at least until Durer comes by his cell with a new round of insults and abuse to remind him.

He has more pressing issues to worry about. One of the most irritating things associated with the memory loss (other than feeling like a disoriented lunatic) is perhaps his inability to gauge the accurate passage of time. The are no clocks, no calendars in prison; not in the area designed for inmates, anyway. Vallewida raises a strand of silver hair to his eyes: it's still the same length as before, meaning he couldn't have spent half of his life in a senseless coma. It is a soothing thought, and he utters a small prayer of thanks. As for more specific information… it can be either a few hours or a few days after Durer took him into his quarters. The light in the cell is dim, suggesting early morning or late evening, but there is no noise outside, so he would rather bet on the former possibility. Is he supposed to get up and go to the workshop now? He has probably 'overslept' breakfast on this day, too…

Suppressing a sigh, Vallewida hauls himself up to a sitting position. The movement shoots sharp sparkles of pain through his entire body, momentarily turning his expression into a grimace. He clenches his teeth and waits until it subsides to a dull throbbing, finally fading to a somewhat bearable level, allowing him to stand up. A few moments of leaning against the wall for support, and he's almost steady on his legs.

What will it be today, he muses, the workshop or the infirmary? Some guards might get angry if they see him disappear into the medical room again. As it is, he probably hasn't fulfilled his daily quota of shoes in a long time now. But of course Durer doesn't give a damn about the amount of cheap footwear Vallewida can produce, and the other wardens are all too aware of what is going on between the head guard and the former soldier, so as much as Vallewida hates to admit it, being Durer's personal plaything does have its advantages, for it sometimes allows him to skip work with no real consequence.

In the end, Vallewida settles for the infirmary, wishing with all his heart that his trip there could have been proceeded by a long shower. Unfortunately, the shower room is closed at this time of the day—the cell has gotten a bit brighter by now, so he knows it's morning, at last.

He feels dirty. No surprise there. He's hurting all over, both on the outside and on the inside, meaning that Durer—and that other thing, too—was inside him the last night, or whenever these terrible events took place. He pushes his shirt back to reveal fresh cuts and ugly bruises. There's one particularly nasty dark spot to the right side of his ribcage, which looks bad enough to make him wince. Durer's boot, he thinks, and probably a cracked rib, as a temporary memento.

Usually it's not _that_ bad, not so many new marks at once; at least not on the nights the warden comes strictly to play, not to punish him, or to interrogate. Something must have made Durer really furious yesterday, taking him far beyond his normal level of sadism. If any level of sadism displayed by Durer could be called normal, that is.

What was it, then? – Vallewida wonders. Wasn't he obedient enough during whatever acts of sexual depravity Durer devised this time? Didn't he follow through his game with sufficient eagerness? He doesn't remember a single minute of it, but he's not a fool; he has a fair idea of what his other self is like, and finds the chance of offending the warden in that state very unlikely.

Well, it doesn't really matter anymore. There's no use trying to understand the logic of someone as twisted as Durer.

Vallewida sighs, reopens his eyes and staggers out of his cell to live for another day.

* * *

Author's Notes: Um. Right. That was very interesting. *massive sweatdrop* I think I should just stick to plain Evan/Vallewida friendship fics now, either with or without the slash in the middle. Or Ellis/Vallewida fics that end with Ellis's bloody death. *cough*

It's not quite clear to me whether Vallewida from the game wants to die or not—thus the ambiguity in the "ghost's" final plea—but the answer is probably no, regardless of what is being done to him and his subsequent depression. He's strong enough to endure all sort of physical/mental torture, and also a Christian, which makes him rather uninterested in suicide. Then again, given his situation, it would be much easier to die than to continue living.


End file.
